


starboy

by Satan In Purple (purple_satan)



Series: Kylux Short Fics/Drabbles [7]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Play, Ben is Alone @ Home Too Often, Blackmail, Camwhore!AU, Don't Sweat it My Dude, Exploitation, Filth Just Plain Filth, Han and Leia's Parenting Leaves a Lot to be Desired, Hux is a Dirty Little Slut, M/M, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Sex Worker!Hux, Stalker!Ben, Too much Damn Plot I S2G
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 10:51:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8798008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_satan/pseuds/Satan%20In%20Purple
Summary: Ben Solo is falling hard for brenDOLL, a young sex worker he pays to see cam every Friday night at 8PM like clockwork. Problem is he can't get the boy out of his head, brenDOLL stays in his mind the rest of the week too.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aicosu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aicosu/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Sheila! Nothing like a little fandom smut between friends for their birthday, right?
> 
> Special thanks to Sylar for helping with the deets on this or I'd have been running blind. 10/10 he was an A+++ co-conspirator, and one fine-ass cheerleader when I needed one.

* * *

 

 

7:53PM.

The minutes tick by, slow as syrupy molasses before he presses enter and logs in. Stolen credit card in hand, Ben’s fingers wrap around the bit of plastic tightly until the edges cut into his skin, knuckles white. The chat box open in front of him a loaded gun, finger on the trigger. He types, deletes, retypes again. Too-clumsy fingers clatter against the keyboard, bottom lip worried between his teeth. A nervous sweat breaks out on his forehead. His palms sweat. He brushes back a lock of dark hair behind one of his ears and waits.

Right now he's happy that he’s shrouded in anonymity. That he's just a blank space, a pitch black void when he replies. Right now only his words define him— though he isn’t much better with those.

He longs for the boy to one day see him, but not now. Never now. Maybe one day, once he's become his. An artist himself, Ben knows all too well how clay longs for the sculptor's hands to shape it into art.

He types and waits, messages grey to black as they post on the screen in front of him. Message sent. An edge of finality, as the tiny text at the bottom screen finally flashes way of reply.

_brenDOLL is typing..._

In the stilted spaces between his fingers on the keyboard, Ben thinks of the past.  _Their past._ He's not exactly sure how he got there. When his fantasies stopped being enough for him to get off on.

First he tried porn, because _everybody_ watches porn. Tried the regular stuff. Hetero stuff with bleached hair, fake tits, cheesy lines.  But that didn't work. Then he tried the harder stuff. Bukkakes, gangbangs, things with questionable moral content. But even in between the slightly less fake moans, those still seemed staged and his fingers ached for something more. For three-dimensionality, for interaction.

One night he ended up following the links through annoying pop-up ads, found a chat site, found cam workers. Found  brenDOLL.

In the beginning it was buying overpriced clips and grainy cam footage, the little chat box in the corner staying blank save for curt instructions he waited for Ben to type in. After a while they began typing during their sessions, letting it spill over like a flood into his real life. Chats about modern media, politics getting him harder than any dirty talk spilling from Bren's lips could. Reciting poetry to Ben; Goethe, Rimbaud. Waxing poetic, his pale eyes behind slim glasses, lips moving as he bared his own skin like it was art. Pale skin, freckles dotting like inverse constellations. Ben wanted to trace them with bitten fingernails, their chipped black nail polish.

How in those first moments he yearned for the heat of supple skin underneath his fingers, thawing the cold that blanketed him in the sparse room; bed, dresser, a desk with his computer he sat at far too often jacking off. How he wanted to make Bren his the moment he laid eyes on him.

(He still does.)

A car backfires outside. Ben jumps in his chair, nervousness and adrenaline getting the best of him. The low whine of his computer processor, the too loud fan inside the tower grate on his nerves. He turns up the volume on his speakers two bars, just enough to hear but not be heard by others. Its laughably discreet, no one else is home.

There’s a buzzing, crackling noise in his speakers for a second before he comes into view of the camera. Immaculately dressed, he's arresting in his angularity, frame first filled mostly with his pinched face. Only the smallest bit of coppery red hair shows as he peers into the camera. Eyes wide and pale, they remind Ben of the color of storm clouds. Dark and full, heavy with rain. He angles himself so Ben can see the sharp protrusions of his clavicles, thin skin delicately stretched over bone dusted with a smattering of light brown dots. The dark straps of the top he’s wearing are thin like ribbons, easily snapped out of the way. Like the apple in the garden of Eden, Ben wants to sink his teeth into the boy’s collarbones, his neck.

A small silver cross lies in the hollow of his neck Ben aches to press his lips to, a trap.

This is no good, pious schoolboy, before him.

Ben's charcoal stained fingers itch with need, as the boy gives him a lazy grin. Teeth sharp, face vulpine. Flexing his long fingers, Ben imagines him in another life. An alternate universe where he never was online. Maybe he’d be classically trained, a pianist of Rachmaninoffian sonatas. Or maybe a chess master, delicate fingers wrapping around his opponent’s pieces to pluck them off the board.

“You’re early today,” the boy says smiling at the screen, accent colored with humor.

 _couldnt wait to see u_.

“Such a loyal customer, Kylo. You should be rewarded. What would you like today?”

 _nything_ , Ben quickly replies, fingers scrabbling against the keys.

“I received the latest package you sent. Would you like me to open it?”

Ben’s heartbeat speeds up, reminded of when he went into the store. Cluelessly searching for something he wasn’t even sure he had the courage to buy. The blush that suffused his cheeks as he made his way to the cashier and all but threw his purchase on the counter, eyes trained on the ground.

The girl ringing him up smiled blandly at him— _You don’t have to be ashamed hon, we get all kinds here._

The camera shakes a bit, jostled as Bren gets up and moves to retrieve it.

As he does, his outfit comes into view. The strappy black dress barely makes it down his thighs. Riding up, it shows the creamy white of his pale skin peeking underneath the hem. Ben lets out a groan as his eyes follow down to dark colored thigh-high stockings, his cock already beginning to harden in his basketball shorts as he sighs.

The embarrassment in the store well worth seeing the purple dildo he bought in the boy’s hand, unpackaged. A bottle of lube is in his other hand, as he gives Ben a sharp grin.

This isn’t the first thing Ben’s sent to him, but it is certainly the first of such an— _overt_ sexual nature. All the packages, the gifts. Toys and clothes, bits and baubles Ben picks up on a whim and sends his way. Everything reminds Ben of him, and so Ben gives him everything for an hour a week for brenDOLL to be his. To give him anything he asks for.

But they’ve never done this before.

Ben has never asked for more than his time, more than a glimpse of his pale body outside of the lascivious outfits he wears. Has never asked for anything beyond to cleave like a knife through the thick layer of sexual tension building between each time he logs on, though he supposes that’s what the boy expects he will want soon. That this has all been interesting and well-paying, but Bren hasn’t been the one stretching out the foreplay before the main event.

Ben gives a nervous chuckle, pulling the drawstrings on his shorts for them to loosen and fall slack. They fall off his hips, catching on his tented erection. He shimmies out of his shorts while staying in the chair, an impressive feat considering his eyes never leave the computer screen as he waits for Bren to come back into view.

 _Turn your audio on, KyloR3n,_ the boy types before moving the camera again. _I want to hear you getting off to me doing this for you. Only you._

He probably says it to everyone, but it hits Ben like a freight train. The singularity of the moment as though he can pretend Bren is actually his and they are just separated by an illuminated screen, tragic long-distance lovers looking for release. Not a cam worker and his customer.

No, never that.

 

* * *

 

_Three long fingers slicked and searching, brenDOLL stretched himself on camera until he was split open like bruised fruit. Ben's eyes widened as he moved his fingers, working them inside to the knuckle. After a few gasps and moans, the boy looked over his shoulder, perhaps to make sure Ben was admiring his work. Fluttered his golden lashes and grinned, pleased with Ben's ragged breaths as reply._

_Then he lowered himself onto the fat, purple dildo in the center of screen. Took his time working inch by inch of it slowly into himself all the while he made sure Ben had a very vivid mental image of just exactly how much he could take._

_"You like that, don't you?”_

_His breath hitched as he spoke, silicone finally seated all the way inside him. “You’re a dirty man, Mr. Ren. Sending me toys of such nature.” Voice breathy as he moved up and down. Held the hem of the skirt, fabric creased and bunched as he clutched it tightly in his long fingers. Purple disappeared, then reappeared beneath him._

_"Bet you wish this was your prick I was riding right now.”_

_“Yeah,” Ben panted back, as he palmed his straining cock through his boxers. Watched him move sinuously, finding rhythm as he circled his hips. “I do.”_

_“Bet you like how different I am from her."_

_"Huh?"  He choked on the utterance, moved to dip the waistband of his boxers, expose his erection._

_"Men like you always have a frigid little wife at home who doesn’t put out for them.”_

_"Always?"_

_"Always."_

 

* * *

 

That night Ben has restless dreams of hair the color of new pennies, of milk-pale legs wrapped around the small of his back. Of sharp hipbones flush with his, the _hotsweetclench_ around his cock a hand could never be. The beauty, the heat as they move together.

He still doesn't know who _she_ is, or what he said to make him think of such a thing. Bren’s fantasy of the real him so incongruous with reality it startles him. He thinks of freckled limbs entwined with his and feels the splash of his come on his hand, his chest, running over his fist. Things over far sooner than he wished. 

He wipes his hand on a dirty shirt that been lying on his floor for at least a week. Some alt-goth band he hasn’t listened to in years. Looks up at the ceiling fan lazily turning. Counting cycles and the rotations of the blades, he drifts but his eyes won’t fully close. He flops over onto his stomach. Sighs.

Now if only he could get some sleep.

 

* * *

 

Every morning when he wakes up, the first thing Ben does is check brenDOLL’s snapchat. He may not know who he is or have met him, but Ben has an idea. That he lives somewhere in the same county as him, goes to the same landmarks sometimes. They may have already met before without knowing it.

Content consumption keeps sex workers in a job, so it’s rare for Bren to have not posted in twenty-four hours. Still more rare for him to not entertain his audience with little bits of his daily life oblique enough no one would know exactly who he was. After all, it can't all be videos of him holding bouncing rubber dildos between two long fingers in disdain, questioning their origin.

Much like a curator of a museum, Bren is surprisingly erudite; knowledgeable of modern art, aesthetics, politics, culture. Ben has spotted the spines of poetry books on his shelves, alphabetically arranged in neat rows between shiny awards, compact disc cases. Has spotted titles from Godard, von Trier, and Kubrick amongst his blu-ray collection. It comes almost effortlessly to Bren to tells the digital world all about the things in life he loves. Maybe he tells too much. 

But to Ben— _it’s never enough._

He likes: overcast days (his cardigan collection extensive), pointed real leather boots with a heel (always black), coffee (Starbucks order: a triple tall nonfat latte, two-percent foam), cigarettes (Djarum blacks), his orange tabby (Millicent), and cars with foreign manufacturers (his dream car: a Bugatti Chiron, black with red trim and shiny chrome). In the information age this all amounts to a little Rolodex of information neatly tucked away in Ben’s brain he files away for later.

Ben thumbs through the boy’s story slowly, letting the little timer on each photo tick to zero and change, taking in as much as he can for the forty dollars a month he pays. Thinks about how he should have bought a lifetime subscription for content. He minimizes the app, opens instagram and sees a new post of Bren in another one of his strappy dresses, hits the like button before really looking at it. Facebook yields nothing new and tumblr is just a reblog of a past video he’s already seen half a dozen times of Bren in a schoolgirl outfit fingering himself to classical music. The lighting was artistic, but Ben wouldn’t say it was his best work. He’s only watched it so many times to make the money he paid feel like it was worth it.

The whole process of checking his social media takes between ten to thirty minutes, depending on what has been posted throughout the night while Ben sleeps. As he brushes his teeth he imagines every kudos, like, and snap back filling a meter only Bren knows the size of. His keen eyes watching with approval Ben’s devotion. Filing away the gifts with little labels, organized boxes of things sent to him from his followers.

 _Maybe he even has his very own box at this point,_ Ben thinks, as he quickly cards his fingers through shaggy hair. Swipes a stick of deodorant under his arms and stuffs his binder into a backpack.

He grabs his keys, his jacket, sprinting as he leaves his house so he wont be late.

 

* * *

 

Ben's phone chimes while he’s at the bus stop, two crumpled dollars fisted tightly in his hand. He rolls his eyes as he checks to see the caller.

_Of course._

Checking in, she calls it. More like guilt. The campaign trail has left his relationship with his mother strained as ever; Ben tucked away alone in her socialite two-story estate he remembers from childhood, while she’s doing interviews. Last he heard his dad was somewhere in the West driving trucks up and down state borders. Too busy to call on any days other than major holidays, maybe a happy birthday if Ben was particularly lucky.

He could give a rat’s ass where either of them are, to be honest. Just wishes they had left him a car to drive so he wouldn't be out in the damn rain.

“Did you make sure they have all your registration papers, Benny?”

“Fuck's sake, ma. Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, scuffing a Doc Marten on the concrete. He checks his watch again. Late. Expecting public transportation to come on time was too much. He switches the shoulder his backpack is on.

“But did you—”

“Yeah, they fuckin’ got them. I start tomorrow.”

“I think you’ll really like this school. You’ll have people closer to—” she pauses for a moment. “ _Peers_ to you. You can't rely on your family name for the rest of your life.”

He opens his mouth to reply.

“And don’t you _‘but grandfather!_ ’ me, Ben Solo. I put the Solo name on your birth certificate for a reason. They won’t even know or care I’m a senator there and you can stay out of trouble.”

Checking the time on his phone instead of his watch, his phone pings a notification, then another. He hopes it’s Bren. He bites his tongue and doesn't make a scathing reply about how possibly if she hadn’t lobbied actively against the Empire maybe things would have gone differently, maybe people wouldn’t have tried to pick fights with him so much.

His mother keeps talking. Ben keeps waiting, frustration mounting. Eventually the overcast sky, the dark clouds, make good on their promise and begin raining down fat drops of water the earth greedily sucks up.

Ben waits without an umbrella or a hood for the bus to the stupid new school he’s transferred to.

 

* * *

 

A few things become evident once the bus leaves him down the street to Arkanis Prep.

One: his hair is a complete mess after the rain. That's the easiest to remedy. A hair tie around his wrist and a few moments, problem solved.

The next: absolutely no one takes the bus to Arkanis Prep. The parking lot full of muscle cars with hemis, older and new mustangs, a few souped up foreign. Toys for kids with too much money. Trigger fingers and joyride habits. Perfectly waxed and shined, they gleam in rows like the straight metal teeth of a machine. He’d make the bet only a few even know how to pick up a torque wrench and use it.

Last but not least: his mother is right, he’s not going to be popular here. That one though is a half-truth. He'll still be famous. But if their are echelons, he'll be barely above notable. At his old school, the old Alderaani money of Bail Organa talked. And when that didn't, his fists did. Here at Arkanis Prep, between the scions of industry leaders, politicians and more notable nobility, though?— he will be nothing, maybe a D-list celebrity at best. The school's in neutral political territory, both Empire and Resistance party member's children attending. If he keeps his head down, doesn't say much and his reputation doesn't follow him, he just might not even get noticed.

He looks at the trophy cases in the hallways on the way to the counselor’s office to get his class schedule. The little plaques with names and dates, the grainy photographs of matching navy blazers and boys smiling holding medals. School rivalries, revelries. His eye catches on red hair, gelled back. Angular cheekbones he’s memorized the slope of. Smile like a switchblade, standing next to a chessboard. Medal around his neck.

Ben squints his eyes, looks again.

It can’t be.

He knew they lived somewhat close but that's still 28 different high schools in the county, not including private ones like Arkanis. He never factored in quite possibly Bren would be at the same school he was getting transferred to .

_What are the fucking odds?_

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Easter Egg time! I actually tried to work in as many details from her previous fics into this as I could without distracting myself too much. Their cars, a few other things. I picked weird things to fixate on. Also more than half of the titles of her fics are sprinkled somewhere in the finished version of this. I try. Oh my god do I try.
> 
> And while I took this from them, this is ultimately not either of their fault. You know me, I gotta put a Satan spin on everything before I can turn it loose and call it my own.
> 
> For more Kylux hell, weird ass writing shit and fandom wank: follow me on tumblr @ [purple-satan-fic](http://purple-satan-fic.tumblr.com/)! Aiiieeeee until next chapter post!


End file.
